


My Heart Only Beats for You

by sparksfly7



Category: Football RPF
Genre: 5 Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfly7/pseuds/sparksfly7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4 people who confess to Leo (+1 person Leo confesses to)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart Only Beats for You

**Author's Note:**

> After my other 4+1 Messilla fic, lumaste said "Now I need a fic 'Four people who confessed love to Leo and one Leo confessed love to,'" and this happened. Well four fifths of this happened in May 2013, and now I finally managed to write the fifth (and most important) part! Let's blame the time skip for how disjointed and bipolar this is. Also, I haven't written Messilla or Leo in forever, and it shows.

**4 people who confess to Leo (+1 person Leo confesses to)**

**i. Kun**

Leo doesn’t just see Kun as his best friend; he sees him as his brother, and so it comes as an utter shock to him when Kun tells him “I like you, Leo” one day, somehow confident and shy at the same time. He looks at Leo with an earnest, boyish smile, and Leo’s mind freezes up on him, because this is Kun and Leo loves him, but not like that, and he’s never been confessed to before, and _this is Kun_.

“I like you too,” Leo finally says. “You’re my best friend.”

He doesn’t need to look at Kun to see how his face falls. “Yeah,” Kun says, his smile not disappearing, but turning strained. Leo looks away before the guilt spreading in his chest overwhelms him. “You’re my best friend too, Leo.”

Kun never makes any kind of advance at Leo again, and a few weeks later, rumours start flying everywhere that he’s dating Giannina Maradona. Leo would never tell anyone, least of all Kun, but he can’t help but feel relieved at the news.

 

**ii. Zlatan**

Most people aren’t very fond of Zlatan, of his careless arrogance and rakish smiles, but Leo doesn’t see him that way. Zlatan can be egocentric and ostentatious, sure, but he’s also funny and hard-working and so refreshingly genuine that Leo smiles sometimes just listening to him.

“You know, Leo,” Zlatan tells him after a game in which Leo scores a hat trick, “you’re the best player I’ve ever played with.”

 _I’ve never been told that before_ , Leo almost wants to joke, but he’s worried about coming off as arrogant, and so he doesn’t say that. Instead he just smiles at Zlatan and says “thank you” and “that means a lot coming from you”.

“I mean it,” Zlatan says with a shrug. “It’s really great to be able to play with you.” He looks at Leo, eyes dark and intense, and Leo is suddenly transported to an Argentine afternoon years ago, when he was young and naïve and clueless to the fact that his best friend had a crush on him. “It’s really great to just be with you in general, actually.”

“Thank you,” Leo repeats. “Maybe we can play FIFA sometimes. I’ve never been to your house, actually. You were saying how your wife makes an amazing crema catalana, right?”

The mention of Helena seems to send a jolt through Zlatan, and he straightens up, the distance between them growing further, a shutter coming over his eyes. “Yes,” he says, with a smile just as strained as Kun’s was all those years ago. “She’s an amazing cook. I’m surprised I haven’t turned fat eating all her food.”

Leo laughs. “I don’t think you’re going to turn fat anytime soon.”

It turns out that his remaining time with Zlatan ends soon indeed, as Zlatan goes off to Italy, to Milan again, but this time the _Rossoneri_. Leo is sorry to see him go, but a little glad too, even as he feels bad for thinking that.

 

**iii. Bojan**

Leo used to be Barça’s “baby”; Gerard would even call him that in Barça B, even though they’re the same age. That position gets taken over by half-Serbian, green-blue-teal-eyed Bojan Krkić, who Thierry adores and Gerard adores and even Leo adores a little.

Bojan is young and sweet and yet charming in a way Leo never was. He shows a lot of promise, and Leo can’t wait to see how he’ll develop. After Samuel and Thierry, the club needs a capable centre forward, and Leo thinks that Bojan has it in him to step it up.

“You doing okay?” he asks Bojan one day, when they’re playing ProEvo at Gerard’s house. Gerard went to the store to pick up some snacks (Leo has no doubt “snacks” really just meant “beer”), and it’s just him and Bojan on the couch, a tangle of wires near their feet.

“Yeah,” Bojan says. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“No, I just mean.” Leo shrugs. “You and Thierry have always been close. Do you miss him?”

A shadow comes over Bojan’s sea-coloured eyes. “I do,” he says, mouth turning down at the corners, “but I’ll get over it. People come and go all the time, don’t they?”

“I don’t like it,” Leo confesses, and Bojan smiles, softly, a little sadly.

“Neither do I, but that’s the way football is.” He puts his hand on Leo’s wrist. “There’ll always be someone left to lean on though.”

Leo thinks idly that it’s funny how Bojan is comforting him rather than the other way around. “Titi is gone, but there are others here,” Bojan continues, his hand sliding down to grasp Leo’s arm. “Gerard. Andrés. You.” He doesn’t put an emphasis or anything when he talks about Leo, but something in his voice still makes Leo swallow.

Leo is at a loss for words again (it’s not an uncommon occurrence, but it still makes him so uncomfortable every time it happens), and he is saved from speaking by the bell. Or rather, by Gerard’s loud, cheerful voice as he clatters in the door.

“Yo I picked up a six-pack, guys,” Gerard announces, and Leo thinks _I knew it_.

“Did you go to Valencia to get it or something?” Leo jokes.

“Shush, young padawan. Patience is a virtue.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “How many bottles did you drink on the way?”

“Shush,” Gerard repeats, and he suddenly hops onto the couch, all long legs and big hands. “You have so little respect for me, Leo.”

Leo opens his mouth to toss back a sharp retort, when Bojan says in a tight voice, “Geri, you’re crushing me.”

“Oops, sorry.” Gerard shifts back. “I don’t want to hurt our little Bo.”

“Yeah,” Bojan says, with a cynical, hard-to-read smile. “That’s me – little Bo.” He looks at Leo for a moment, something deep and clouded in his eyes: a silent accusation, perhaps, or an expression of regret. Then he smiles and tackles Gerard to the floor. Despite the height difference between them, Bojan has almost always won in “fights”, whether because he’s nimble or Gerard lets him, Leo doesn’t know.

People come and go all the time, like Bojan said, and even Bojan leaves soon, not quite living up to his promise.

Leo can’t help but wonder what could have been.

 

**iv. Xavi**

There is no one on the team Leo admires more than Xavi. (Of course, there’s Pep, but Leo’s never had the privilege to play with Pep, and so it’s different.) Football has always been so much more than a sport to Leo; it is art, it is beauty, it is his life, and Xavi shows him why that is every day.

In his younger years, when he had just started at the senior team, even the smallest bit of praise from Xavi had made him feel like he was floating. For a while, he thought that he liked Xavi, really liked him like _that_ , but he grew to realize it was a combination of hero worship and transference of his love for football. (Because Xavi _is_ football, isn’t he?)

“Hey, Leo, Xavi, we’re going out for some sushi on the weekend,” Gerard says. “Wanna come?”

Before Xavi can answer, Gerard throws out a ridiculously long arm and seems to scoop Puyi out of thin air. “One captain’s already coming; we need another one for a full set.”

Xavi raises an eyebrow at Puyi, who shrugs and says “I like sushi.” The look he gives to Gerard’s arm indicates that he perhaps doesn’t feel the same way about his company. Leo laughs.

“I don’t really feel like it this weekend,” Xavi says. “Maybe next time. Thanks for asking though.”

“Come on,” Gerard wheedles. “Are you sure? Come on, Leo, convince Xavi.”

“I don’t feel like it either,” Leo says. He’s tired, after three matches in eight days, and he just wants to sit at home in his pyjamas and eat cereal right out of the box, maybe put on some TV and just sink into the couch. “Not this weekend.”

“You two are so boring,” Gerard whines. “At least Puyi knows how to have fun. It must be the hair.”

“I cannot believe you’re older than Leo,” Puyi mutters, starting to tug Gerard away.

“It’s only four months,” Leo says. He can’t believe it either.

Xavi laughs, warmly, unexpectedly, startling Leo.

“Huh?” Leo says.

“Nothing,” Xavi replies. “I’m just thinking. You, Gerard and…Cesc were called the ‘Barça Baby Dream Team’, right?”

“It was a lame name,” Leo says, cheeks colouring. He certainly doesn’t want to be called anything with the word ‘baby’ in it anymore.

“I think it’s a good name. The ‘dream’ part is certainly right.”

It says something about how much he admires Xavi that Xavi’s praise still makes him want to blush and fidget.

“The ‘baby’ part, not so much.”

Xavi laughs again. “You’re not a kid anymore, Leo,” he says, his eyes slowly roving over Leo, as if he’s taking him in for the first time after ten years apart. “I can see that.”

Leo swallows. Xavi doesn’t mean it like...like _that_ , right? Leo must be reading too much into things.

“Yeah, just because I’m four months younger than Gerard and he’s a kid doesn’t mean I’m one too.” Leo smiles, a little nervously.

Xavi smiles back, not nervously at all. “I was wondering. This weekend – since you’re not doing anything, do you want to come mushroom picking with me?”

“Mushroom picking?” Leo repeats.

“Yes, it’s fun.”

“I, uh, I’m kind of busy,” Leo says, feeling terrible at the lie but. This has become all too familiar to him, and although he still doesn’t know what to say, he knows enough that accepting such an invitation will lead him down a road that he’s not ready for, take him somewhere that he doesn’t want to go yet.

Xavi’s expression doesn’t change. “Oh,” he says. "With what, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Nothing much,” Leo says honestly, not wanting to make up an excuse. “It’s just that – I’m tired. I just need some time for myself.” He plays with a loose thread in the hem of his shirt. “You can understand that, right?”

“Yes,” Xavi says, his expression softening. “I can. You need a break, Leo.”

“I just feel like I know a lot about football, but not much about everything else. I need some time to…find that, you know?” To find himself. And maybe someone who he won’t want to turn down when they confess to him. Maybe someone he wants to confess to. He feels like he wants that now, maybe even needs it, and he can tell Xavi is not that person for him.

“I understand,” Xavi says, and by the look on his face, Leo knows he really does. “Take your time, Leo. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Leo hopes so too, even though he feels too tired sometimes to hope. It lives on in his chest, however, a tiny flame that just needs to be kindled by the right touch.

 

**v. (i) David**

David Villa comes on the back of a World Cup victory, with a Silver Boot and Bronze Ball to boot. Leo doesn’t know much about him, but given how hard Barça chased after him and how much he’s accomplished with Spain, he expects them to have a prolific partnership.

He’s not wrong.

He and David link up effortlessly on the pitch; they carve open defences and break apart opponents and score, score, score.

Leo has played with many great strikers, but there’s something about David. Some innate understanding between them, some inexplicable connection. He can see where David is without looking at him, can place the ball at his feet with but a mere thought, can feel his heart swelling like it’s too big for his chest when David hugs him after a goal.

He attributes all that to the beautiful football that they play. Football is the most beautiful thing in Leo’s world; people are a second thought.

 

David appears dark and sullen at times, but he lights up after a goal, his grin bright enough to make Leo’s own smile widen. He’s hungry for goals – that much is obvious to anyone – but he seems almost as happy when Leo scores.

Leo can’t describe how he feels when David is running towards him after a goal, pointing at him with a broad grin, the Camp Nou coming to life around them.

Some things are too beautiful to describe.

 

“Messi is the most brilliant player I’ve ever played with,” David tells a reporter after another game in which they dominated, they illuminated, they conquered. “It’s a privilege to play with him.”

Leo wants to tell him that he loves playing with him too, but he doesn’t know how to say the words and so he doesn’t say anything at all.

David smiles at him like he hears him, anyway.

 

He notices that David’s front teeth are crooked, that his eyes are somewhere between gold and brown rather than the black he always thought they were. He notices more and more about David that has nothing to do with football, and he doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge, what to do with himself, because he’s never felt this way about anyone before.

He knows a lot about football, about how to link up with his teammates and dribble around opponents and put the ball in the net. Football is easy to Leo; people are a different story.

 

“You don’t talk much,” David says when they’re stretching together.

Leo pushes past the tightness in his hamstring. “I do when there’s something to say.”

“So you never have anything to say to me?” David sounds teasing, but Leo isn’t sure to how to reply. People often misinterpret his sarcasm.

David’s eyes narrow slightly. “If you don’t like me, you can just say so, you know.”

“What?” Leo gapes. “Who said I don’t like you?”

“You don’t need to say it. I have eyes, you know. You’re so awkward around me.”

Leo thinks wryly that the source of his awkwardness around David isn’t dislike, but rather something in the opposite direction.

“I’m just an awkward person in general.”

“I don’t want you to be awkward around me.” David stretches his arms above his head, revealing a pale strip of skin at his abdomen. “We’re partners.”

“We’re not awkward when we’re on the pitch,” Leo points out. Or maybe it’s that he isn’t awkward when he’s on the pitch. When he’s playing football, he knows what to do, where to move, how to be. Life is a different matter.

David, unexpectedly, smiles. “So we’re halfway there already. Why don’t we try to be not awkward off it too?”

Leo wets his lips. “Okay,” he says, wondering what David has in mind.

“Okay,” David says.

 

The next day, David approaches him when it’s time to pick stretching partners.

Leo presses down on David’s leg and tries not to notice how much skin he can see. David is smaller up close, his limbs lean, his frame slim. He doesn’t have as much gel in his hair today, and it looks soft, inviting. Leo wants to touch it, wants to touch him.

Instead, he backs away from David so he can breathe.

“So much for being not awkward,” David says with a quirk of his lips.

Leo brings a hand to his face in the pretence of shielding it from the sun. “It’s hot,” he mumbles.

David hands him a water bottle.

 

“I’ve always wanted to ask you something,” David says. “You’ve known Fàbregas since you were kids, right?”

Leo nods, having no idea where this is going.

“Did he get dropped on the head when he was a baby?”

Leo blinks. “What?”

“Or did he chew on his crib bars or something? I think people still used lead paint back then. It would explain a lot.”

“Cesc doesn’t have mental problems,” Leo says. “He’s just…Cesc.”

“What a great description,” David deadpans. He leans forward with a half-smile on his face. “If that’s ‘just Cesc’, what’s ‘just Leo’?”

Leo opens his mouth, realizes he has no clue how to answer that question, and closes it again.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to make your own conclusions.”

David’s half-smile turns into a full one. “Oh, don’t worry, I am.”

Leo isn’t sure what to make of that, but David draws him into an anecdote of Cesc and a balloon and a donut shop, and he finds himself smiling too.

 

They’re not awkward on the pitch. Not in the slightest. In their next match, Leo gets a hat trick. The first and third assists are from David, and after Leo’s hat trick goal, David smiles so widely his face looks like it might split in half.

“You little genius, you,” David breathes into his ear. Leo buries his face into his neck and inhales him: sweat and grass and musk and the faintest trace of cologne. David keeps his arm around him and they stay like that for a long moment.

 

This time, Leo is the one who seeks David out for stretching.

“Real dropped points again,” David says conversationally. “It looks like we’ll win the league even sooner than I thought.”

Leo drags a hand through his hair. He should really cut it, he thinks idly, it gets in his eyes all the time. “It’s a bit early to say.”

David looks amused. “You don’t really want to win the league, do you?”

Leo frowns. “Of course I do.”

“I guess I didn’t phrase it right,” David says. “You don’t want to win it as much as the Champions’ League.”

Leo’s hair falls into his eyes again, and he gives up on brushing it away. “I want to win everything.”

David smiles, crooked incisors and clear intent. “So do I.”

 

“Leo, did you try the roast chicken?” Gerard asks during a team lunch. “It’s awesome.”

Leo looks down at his full plate. “I’ll have some later.”

“You’ve been hanging around Villa a lot lately,” Gerard says not quite casually. “Am I being replaced?”

“As what?” Leo asks, spearing a piece of tomato with his fork.

“As what?” Gerard repeats in an exaggeratedly hurt voice. “As your best friend, of course. What else?”

“David isn’t my best friend.”

Gerard takes a roll from Leo’s plate. “What is he then, your boyfriend?”

Leo’s heart lurches embarrassingly. He swats Gerard’s hand. “Give me my bread back.”

“Make me.”

“What are you, five?”

“That’s an insult to five-year-olds,” David says gravely, setting his plate down beside Leo’s. “Is this hooligan bothering you, Leo?”

“It looks like your boyfriend is here,” Gerard sighs. “I guess I’ll leave you two alone.” He goes off – with Leo’s roll – to talk to Cesc.

David raises an eyebrow at Leo. “I wasn’t aware that I was your boyfriend.”

“Don’t mind Gerard.” Leo keeps his eyes on his food, his cheeks feeling flushed. “He’s just being—Gerard.”

“You use that description a lot,” David says. “Did you figure one out for ‘just Leo’ yet?”

Leo doesn’t make eye contact with him. “‘Just Leo’ wants to try the roast chicken.”

David slides his plate towards Leo. “I got some. Try it.”

“Don’t you want to try some first?”

“It’s not the end of the world if I didn’t have the first bite,” David says wryly. “Go on. You have my permission.”

Leo cuts off a small portion of the chicken, bringing it to his lips. It’s tender and flavourful, and he chews it slowly to savour the taste. He swallows. “It’s good.”

The light casts David’s face into shadow, and his eyes are especially dark. He leans in towards Leo, reaching out his arm, his hand stretched towards Leo’s face. Leo freezes.

David points to Leo’s cheek. “You have a bit of sauce there.”

“Oh.” Leo fumbles at his cheek with a napkin. “Did I get it?”

“No, closer to the right.”

Leo tries and David just shakes his head with a smile.

“Here,” he says, taking the napkin from Leo to dab at his face. His face is set in concentration, and his eyes don’t look so dark anymore. They’re warm and ocher, and Leo is incapable of looking away from them.

David finishes and withdraws the napkin, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead he looks at Leo, eyes scanning slowly and leisurely over his face.

“Did you get it all?” Leo asks, his throat dry.

“Yeah.” David finally leans back in his seat. “It’s all gone.”

Leo clears his throat. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Gerard comes back with two full plates of food and a playful grin. Leo can’t remember the last time he was so grateful for Gerard’s company.

 

“What’s winning the Champions League like?”

Leo idly shifts the ball under his foot. “Like winning the World Cup, probably.”

“You’re not still sad about that, are you?”

He gives David a sharp look. “Who said I was sad?”

“When I first came to training, I wanted to talk to you, but you were looking at Piqué and Pedro talk about the World Cup with this wounded puppy look—”

“Wounded puppy?” Leo splutters.

“—and I could tell you were sad about it, so I didn’t try talking to you then.”

“I don’t look like a wounded puppy.”

“You’re young,” David says. “You have more World Cups ahead of you.”

“You’re not exactly an old man either.”

David’s mouth curls up at the corners, but it’s not quite a smile. “I’m not getting any younger,” he says offhandedly. “By the next World Cup, you’ll still be younger than I am now.”

Leo isn’t sure what to make of David’s tone, but he doesn’t like it. “The next World Cup is a long time away.”

“Exactly,” David says. “The Champions League isn’t. You haven’t answered my question.”

“What’s winning it like?” Leo muses. “It’s like…a dream. Better than a dream. I can’t describe it. You’d have to experience it.”

David looks satisfied with that explanation. “I intend to.”

 

“You do such amazing things with a ball,” David says. “It’s kind of unreal sometimes.”

“Why only kind of?” Leo teases.

David laughs, lines crinkling around his eyes. “Because you’re real,” he says, his eyes pinned on Leo’s, holding them captive. “You’re real and here with me.”

Leo takes a swig from his water bottle. “I like playing with you too,” he says. “A lot.”

David smirks. “Well, of course,” he says with careless arrogance. “I’m great.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “And modest.”

“Very,” David agrees. He glances towards Leo’s water bottle – well, not glances, really; Leo recognizes his expression, a milder version of the look he gives the goal: a look of want – and Leo passes it to him.

He definitely doesn’t look at the way David’s throat flexes as he drinks. Not at all.

 

Leo fights off two defenders and slides the ball to David, who chips it beautifully over the keeper. It’s a huge – beautiful – goal, one that Leo was starting to think they wouldn’t be able to get, but David doesn’t celebrate.

Not that Leo had expected him to. This is Sporting, after all, his boyhood club, and anybody who knows anything about David knows how loyal he is.

David doesn’t celebrate, but he puts his arm around Leo for a second, a weight that Leo misses when it’s withdrawn.

David’s goal is beautiful. David’s football is beautiful. David is—

 

“Hey Guaje,” Xavi says as they’re about to head onto the bus. “That was a real golazo.”

David shrugs, a small smile playing on his face. “What’s the other kind? A fake golazo?”

“Can’t you ever just take a compliment?”

David rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

They sit next to each other on the bus – they always do now – and David puts headphones on. He doesn’t look very happy, even though he just saved the game for them.

“David,” Leo says quietly. David doesn’t react at all; he probably didn’t hear Leo. “David,” he says, a little louder.

David slips his headphones off and turns to him. “Did you say something?”

“Does it hurt?” Leo asks bluntly. “To score against them?”

David makes a contemplative sound. “It’s…complicated.”

Leo nods. He can’t really sympathize – Barça is his home, has been since he was thirteen – so there’s not much he can say. “It was a beautiful goal,” he says, because it’s true, and because David should hear it, even though he must know it already.

David smiles. “I know,” he says, even, matter-of-fact. He adds, “It was a beautiful assist.”

“I know.” Leo leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. He’s exhausted. “Thanks.”

After a few minutes, David says something else, softly, quietly, but Leo is half-asleep already and he misses it.

 

“Do you like your nickname?”

“Guaje?”

“No. Maravilla.”

“Do you like being called Messiah?”

“I was asking you the question.”

“It’s pretty incredible to hear a whole stadium chanting that.”

“Do you like it?”

“I used to more.”

 

David kicks the ball to Leo, who stops it automatically.

“Did you ever think about leaving Barcelona?”

“Leaving Barcelona?” Leo repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Not really.”

David gives him a sharp look. “Not at all?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I haven’t really considered it. Not in a long time.”

“You love it here so much, huh?”

“It’s all I’ve ever known.” Leo scoops up the ball and balances it on his thigh. “And yes, I love it here.”

“And they love you,” David says idly.

“They’ll love you too,” Leo tells him. “Many of them already do.”

David’s lips twist. “I didn’t come here looking for love.”

Leo didn’t look for love either. You don’t need to look for something to find it. And sometimes, it finds you.

 

A thought occurs to Leo. A cold, unpleasant thought.

“Are you thinking about it?”

David doesn’t look up from tying his boots. “About what?”

“Leaving Barça.”

David tenses and straightens up, meeting Leo’s eyes. “It’s a bit early to be thinking about it, isn’t it? I haven’t even been here a season.”

“Don’t think about it,” Leo says. _Don’t leave_.

“What are you, my manager?”

“Don’t think about it,” Leo repeats stubbornly.

David’s eyes soften. “I’m not.”

It’s not _I won’t_ , but it’s good enough for now.

 

“I’m not—very interesting,” Leo says haltingly.

David’s eyebrows almost climb into his hairline. “Where is this coming from?”

“Lionel Messi is a great player. A lot of people like watching him play.” He probably sounds unhinged talking about himself in third person, but he hopes David understands what he’s trying to say. “Leo is just…”

“Just Leo,” David says. “I know who you are. You’re just Leo.”

“Yeah,” Leo says quietly. “I am.”

“Maybe when I first came here, you were Lionel Messi to me,” David says slowly. “But now…you’re Leo. Just Leo.”

Leo looks at David, thinks about comings and goings and missed chances and suspended hope. He thinks about how David’s hair looks when he’s fresh out of the shower, the gel washed away, the dark locks falling into his eyes. He thinks about how no amount of goals is ever enough to David. He thinks about how he always fits perfectly under David’s arm.

He thinks about David.

“David.” His voice comes out as a whisper.

“Yes, Leo?”

“I—” _I like you. I want you. I think I’m falling in love with you._ Leo kisses him. David is stiff against him for a moment before he relaxes, practically melts against Leo, winds his fingers through Leo’s hair and opens his mouth for him. They kiss for what might be a few minutes or several sunlit days.

“Me too,” David breathes. “Me too, Leo.”

Leo smiles against his mouth.

 

He ends up in David’s bed, although they don’t have sex, not that time at least. David kisses him, slow and languid and soft like a dream, except this isn’t a dream, because David is real and here with him.

Where he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> "They kiss for what might be a few minutes or several sunlit days" is adapted from "After several long moments — or it might have been half an hour — or possibly several sunlit days — they broke apart", from _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ by J. K. Rowling.


End file.
